About Life
by StrangeAffinity
Summary: Yamato struggles with the guilt of a failed marriage and learns that forgiveness is a long road.
1. Tasting Blood

**About Life**

Chapter One - Tasting Blood

Disclaimer - I don't own the characters.

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He doesn't know why he is being so dramatic.

Sitting in the dark with the lights off isn't making him feel any less tense, but it sets the stage for the battle that is to come. Perhaps he thinks all the theatrics will keep his emotions at a safe distance, or at least take away the reality. This confrontation will run smoothly, like a movie, and he will be the actor. Not the character. This cannot possibly be his life anymore. He doesn't even recognize it. It's only a story now. A stupid story about a stupid man who was too stupid to see what was going on until it was too late.

The dialogue won't tear his skin if he recites the script word for word. Pause in all the right places. Add interesting movement. The pain can't be real if he assumes his role. When he plays this part he cannot leap up and start screaming. Nothing can scratch the surface of his icy demeanor. Not even her.

He isn't afraid to do this. He doesn't think he has ever been truly terrified of anything since he was twelve. Neither has she. And maybe that's the problem. She wasn't afraid to smash his heart against the nearest wall. He isn't afraid to call her to the carpet for it. He'll make her pick up all the pieces with her bare fingers if he has to. They aren't afraid to destroy each other if it comes to that, and he knows she deserves it. But what she has done is just as disturbing as what he plans to do.

He is repeating everything.

He is going to kill this marriage tonight. There is no other alternative. He must slay the beast before it eats him alive, and there will be blood before it's dead and over. Too much blood for a clean kill. It's going to stain them. It's going to stain their children. It's going to stain this whole home with the sour, rusty stench of a bleeding relationship left to die. He recognizes the same rancid flavor he was spoon-fed as a child. No amount of toothpaste will make that taste go away. Bloodstains don't come out easily.

Blood. He's never liked blood. And there will be so much after tonight.

_It's happening again. It's happening again. It's happening again. It's happening all over again_.

The mantra is beginning to invade every corner of his mind. He cannot escape the stomach twisting truth. Everything he vowed to never do when he became an adult has come crashing down on his head. It's happening again, and he doesn't know if he's strong enough to face up to this deja vous. He must evade the reality of his predicament if he is to succeed. He must pretend it's nothing more than a stage. Preforming his life at a manageable distance.

He rehearses exactly what will happen in his head. She will come home and turn on the lights. He won't say anything. He'll just stare at her, and she will know he knows, implicitly. There will be no awkward accusations. She'll beg for his forgiveness, but he'll refuse. Then he will walk away without ever looking back. It doesn't have to be painful at all. If he's lucky, it won't even bleed on the carpet. Just like in the movies.

He is beginning to drum his fingers on the armrest. His spine has become a violin string, pulled taut, waiting for somebody to pluck him. The anticipation is relief, and it is agony. He doesn't know which is worse. He is relishing these last few minutes of calm, but at the same time, just imagining what she is doing right now is making him seethe. It's making him lose his concentration. He can't let himself think about that if he wants to be objective. He forces himself to continue counting the minutes.

Eighty-nine since he started.

She has wasted eighty-nine minutes of his life sitting in the dark. No. She's wasted more than that. She's wasted his whole married life with insincere promises. She is the second woman to ruin him, and he doesn't know why he still likes them. Snakes, they all are. Snakes with legs and eyes and hips.

When the front door finally opens, he freezes entirely. He doesn't breathe. He wants her to notice him, but he longs to be invisible. It makes no sense, but he can't change his mind now. He's already there in that chair. Perhaps, he could still pretend to be asleep and put this off for another night. But he isn't a coward. He may be many things, but he knows in his bones that he is not a coward. He has caught her in the act, and he can't let her go now. Another night of silence and lies might suffocate him.

He wants to come out of this alive.

Her silhouette stops dead in the doorway. Like a mouse sensing an owl hovering overhead. She can't see him in the dark, but she knows he's there. He used to admire her ability to sense danger a mile away, but right now everything about her is irritating. Even her godforsaken peril radar. She always acts like something is about to jump out from behind a corner, purely out of instinct. But it's been years since their digital world encounter, and her skittish mannerisms are no longer amusing.

He speaks. He promised himself he wouldn't speak, but he hears the words, and he knows they are coming from his mouth, "Ninety minutes."

She doesn't ask what he's talking about. She's too smart to pretend to be stupid. She doesn't have anything sufficient to say in response, so she lets the words dangle, unopposed and undenied. His last crumb of hope is snuffed in the silence. He knew it was futile, but he wanted to cling to any chance their marriage had. Now he sees that it's like trying to hold back a waterfall with a piece of paper. There is no hope if she won't even plead her innocence.

He doesn't know why he even bothered with hope. Hope isn't his virtue. Hope took her away.

She shuts the front door behind her and turns on a lamp in one motion. For someone who has developed a propensity for creeping around in the dark, she seems unreasonably frightened of it. Or maybe she is just frightened of him. Both would be justifiable concerns for someone in her position, but he doubts she'd admit to weakness. Especially a weakness as grievous as fear.

She drops her keys. They land on the counter, and the metallic clink is like a gunshot. He wishes he could look away from her. He can't look at the damage, but it's like watching a car wreck. The horrific beauty is fascinating. Mused hair, smudged lipstick, rumpled clothes. Mascara. She never wears mascara anymore. Except when she goes into the dark. He has come to know her well after four years of this charade, and now he wonders if she knows anything at all about him.

They've become strangers in an embarrassing accident. _Terribly sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to fall in love with you. I'll try to look where I'm going next time._

She chooses the dodge the issue, like he knew she would, "Are the kids in bed?"

"No," He glares at her, like she's dropped something breakable, "I let them stay up with me, so we could all see what mommy does after dark," Sarcasm seems to be his weapon of choice for tonight's duel.

She doesn't admit to anything. She looks at him for a long time. He almost flinches under the scrutiny, but he's grown used to it now. She always puts on that pitiful, smacked puppy look before she's about to drop a bomb, "So it's over then."

There is no discussion. There is no argument. She has used her incurable logic to pinpoint the inevitable conclusion, and all they need now is the paper work. He knows that is what he wanted, but at the same time he has so many things left to say. _Why him? Why now? How can you do this to our children? What did I do wrong? Do you want me to hate you? How the hell could you do this?_

He nods and says nothing.

"If that's all you wanted to say to me, I think I'll be going to bed," She flounces past him without meeting his eyes. She is an excellent pretender, but he knows why she can't look at him. He knows her.

He continues to sit as he listens to her get ready for bed. He knows she won't lose any sleep over what just happened. According to her, this means nothing in the big picture. The well is dried up. It's time to move on. She can't afford to look over her shoulder when she's saving the world. He married a goddess, and it's nobody's fault but his own.

So he stares into the dark and bleeds for a while.

* * *

Sun.

Hot on his face. Poking under his eyelids.

Yamato Ishida moaned and threw a hand over his face. His bed didn't face the window. He made sure of that when they moved in four years ago. Where had this annoying sunlight come from?

The memories of last night spun unbidden through his head. A bitter carousel of his passive aggressiveness and her open hostility, painted red and black, spiraled through the dark depths of his mind. It hadn't been a dream. He was wide awake in an instant. A bucket of ice water couldn't have roused him more effectively.

He was in the same chair he had sat in last night. His neck and back were sore from the position he'd slept in. Gingerly, he rolled his head around, and put his hands to his throat to ease the stiffness. He winced as the pain constricted around his collarbone and sent needles of agony through his skull. When had he become so fragile? He didn't remember growing old.

Everything seemed brighter than usual. The light pouring through the patio windows was forming a blue and green halo in his eyes. Colors were more blurry around the edges. The tan of the couch in the corner merged seamlessly into the mahogany carpet. He had to squint before he even realized where he was. His eyes were stinging and prickling with the colors. Blinded by the light. He felt like he had a hangover, but he couldn't remember drinking last night. He couldn't remember ever getting out of the chair.

He could only remember Hikari, and the way she'd flipped all of his perceptions. His demure, soft-spoken wife had looked dangerous last night, and it was still haunting him now. The way her long, manicured fingernails flitted absently over the hem of the slippy black number she had donned for the evening. The cat eyeliner darkening her normally luminous eyes. The slight wrinkle of her dainty little nose before she said those words.

"_So it's over then."_

There was no remorse in that innocent face. They all thought she was an angel, but she had everyone fooled. The woman he'd confronted last night was not the kitten he'd married. She was a tigress, and she'd turned her predatory gaze on him. He had been caught completely unaware.

Six months.

He knew everything now, and instead of feeling angry, he was numb. He couldn't confront how he felt just yet. That was a can of worms that shouldn't be touched until he had put some distance between them. And God help him, if he ever saw _that man_ again, he couldn't be held responsible for his actions. He'd hold them both in contempt for the rest of his life.

Where was she anyway? Usually the house was buzzing with noise by this time. The twins would both be up, and she'd be clattering around making breakfast for the screaming horde. The twins. Where were they?

He rubbed at his eyes and stood up. The room spun for a few moments, but soon the dizziness subsided. That's when he noticed the note in the center of the kitchen table. It was written in precise, flowery script on a small section of napkin.

_Went out. Should be back by 2. Kids are at my parents' house. - Kari_

He knew that by 'out' she meant 'finding an attorney as fast as possible'. As if marriage was something she could just jump in and out of whenever it suited her best. Like a pool. She was in for a rude surprise when this went to court. He had been to divorce court before. He would rather be thrown to hungry sharks without a life preserver.

And who was she to take his children to her parents' house? When had he become such an incompetent father that he couldn't even take care of his own children? If anything, she was an incompetent mother. He growled and stuffed the note into his pocket. Bitch.

If she was going to go lollygagging around town, so was he. Maybe he could get that Greymon action figure his son wanted for his birthday while he was out. Not that presents would ever make up for what was going to happen to the twins in the near future. He didn't want to imagine the pain in those eyes when they learned what other birthday presents mommy and daddy had in store. They were going to hate him for breaking the family. The way he hated his father.

'_Hated?_'

Could he really hate someone for doing what he was doing now? Was he prepared to take this scar with him into hypocrisy? But just because he understood didn't mean he was ready to forgive. There were miles between them that simple apologies did not dissolve. Even if he could not hate him anymore.

He had hated him once upon a time, and that was enough.

He walked out of their apartment without bothering to check his appearance. As an after thought he ran a hand through his hair to keep it from sticking up. The fresh air was a welcome relief, but it could not calm him. He still felt like he was on the edge of something very steep. One wrong foot . . .

He took the napkin out of his pocket and stared at the words, like they held a deeper meaning. Maybe if he stared until his eyes burned, he would see the secret message between the lines. An explanation? An apology? Anything to prove he hadn't wasted his life on her. But the words were silent. Elegant letters flowing into the epitome of girly script. She was so neat and tidy about destroying his life. It was sickeningly simple. She didn't love him.

So he tore her apart.

He wasn't satisfied until the napkin was reduced to shreds in his palms. With one last scowl he tossed the feathery pieces to the wind and they floated away. Lost in the rampage of the charging city, flowing steadily forward, belching grease and gasoline.

"Yamato Ishida, do you realize that you've just littered all over?"

He whirled at the sound of the voice, and forced himself to smiled when he recognized the woman approaching him. Sora Yagami. His best friend's wife. He supposed that she too had been his friend at one time, but they had lost too many years on other priorities. No time to rekindle dying friendships. He hadn't had a real conversation with her since Taichi's housewarming party two years ago.

She skipped up to him like they'd been friends only yesterday, "I didn't expect to run into you."

She was a regular little sunbeam today. She had the most disgustingly infectious smile on her lips, and a sunny yellow dress that seemed to radiate her happiness and goodwill toward men. He hated it. She wasn't allowed to be happy at a time like this. The birds weren't allowed to sing. The sun wasn't allowed to shine. The whole world ought to feel the grief in his air.

"Yeah," He shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets, "What a pleasant surprise."

Her grin faltered for a moment, "Is something wrong?"

He glared daggers at her, "No."

She frowned at him like his skin was transparent, "Fine."

Fine. He was everything but fine. He wanted to scream something depressing, so she wouldn't smile so much. Something like, why would people get married just to hurt each other? How come you never really get it until it's too late to try again? Does litter really matter in a city that's made of it? Does anyone on the other side of the world ever stop and wonder if somebody somewhere just had their heart broken? Would she ever wonder that?

Was she ever going to leave? She was still standing there beside him, like he was supposed to be doing something. Get down on the sidewalk so the princess of sunshine wouldn't soil her shoes on the litter.

"Is there something else you want?" He snapped.

She nodded and twirled a strand of copper hair around her finger, the picture of coy innocence. Yamato recognized that entreating look. It was the very same look that never failed to bring her husband to his knees. Obviously, she thought it would work on him too. He was sick of having inky eyelashes fluttering in his face.

"I was wondering, if you're not too busy, could you help me?"

'_Does it look like I want to help you?'_ Curiosity got the better of him, "Help you with what?"

"I'm looking for a crib for the nursery, and I know you have experience with cribs," She put a hand to her belly that was only beginning to show signs of her pregnancy. Now he remembered.

Ever since Taichi and Sora had learned they were pregnant, she was always grinning. They'd been trying for years, and it was beginning to seem like she would never have any children when the little miracle happened. Yamato had never seen two people more overjoyed. Sora went into mother mode instantly, preparing for the baby's arrival the instant she heard the news, and Taichi became even more protective and doting than usual around his wife. If anyone deserved a happy, healthy baby, it was them.

But he found himself resenting their happiness anyway.

"I guess I could help you," He gave a noncommital shrug, trying not to let his jealousy show on the surface.

"You're fantastic," She sprang forward and trapped him in a tight embrace before he could dodge her.

He stared past her cinnamon scented head and wondered why he couldn't make himself enjoy the fact that a woman was hugging him. Maybe it was because lately he expected them to slap him and leave him to bleed. Maybe it was because he could feel the swell in her abdomen against his stomach, mocking the decay inside him with its promise of new life.

Or maybe he didn't have anything left to feel.


	2. Words

A/N : I bet you thought I was dead :)

Sorry about the exceptionally long delay. I'm not in the mode to go on a tangent about my reasons. I'll try to be better about updates in the future.

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**Chapter Two - Words**

His addiction to the words started simply enough. The catalyst was when he saw the beauty. It filled the world to the brim and flooded over the sides. It was the scent of lavender, and it was meadowlark song. White air and whispering trees. All he saw filled his heart, and then the words came. The words to describe his feeling. Words that could take him higher than morphine. He doesn't understand how he lived without them before.

At first, his work was just three line prose, innocent and unassuming like the first buds of spring emerging from a barren tree. Inspiration was fragile, and it brushed against him softly in times of silence. Just a gentle lapping like soft waves on sand.

He can't pinpoint the exact time it began to grow and blossom. His mind was ever turning out of itself, bursting into a mad whirl of color scent and sound. It was almost frightening to feel such life pulsing inside him. Poems became ballades, became stories, became novels and still, his mind was never quiet. Never satisfied that he'd thoroughly expressed the blooming brilliance lacing through his every nerve.

To feel so inspired was pain most exquisite. Every moment the intensity of the world was almost too much for him to hold himself together. The light was in his eyes, and eternity rested on his palms. There was no time to hold his breath before the storm. The words were pounding away in his skull. A restless, churning surf against the rocks.

But all of this exhilaration was trapped in his mind, and so he wrote. Pencils. Pens. Keyboards. As long as he could write until his fingers bleed with emotion.

Living outside his mind, he seemed a very reserved person. The world was only ordinary, and on the outside he too was an ordinary man. He was friendly and well liked by his friends, but he would always be the reticent one. The one who thought too much about good and evil. Life and death. Nobody expected him to turn out this way when they were twelve.

After all, his brother was the artist. Seeing as this role was already filled, he was expected to occupy a different niche. Perhaps, they said, he could play basketball, or become an English teacher. But he had come to know the words quite well, and they moved him in ways he never knew.

Out of his body. Into the wind.

Hikari was always the one who brought him back. She, with her straight faced assessments of the world. She who lived for others, contact, ground, truth. He would never have been there at all if she hadn't held his feet to the ground. She was the one who pinned him down to the cork board, and he didn't mind at all.

Their companionship started out as one of necessity. The two youngest children caught up in a battle they never signed up for. They kept each other sane with make-believe and stories. They whispered soft words of comfort to each other on scary nights with no mothers around to chase away the demons. It made peril a game and the darkness more bearable. Even when the world was falling apart, Hikari would still play tag with him.

They remained closer than friends normally are after their experiences, but their relationship didn't become physical in any way until after she married Yamato. He thinks it began to change after her twins were born. Something about his perception of her changed. She was always an eight year old girl to him, until then. But when he saw Hikari the wife and Hikari the mother, he also began to see Hikari the beautiful woman. How had he missed it before?

But until that night six months ago, it was only a mildly interesting observance. She was married to his brother after all. He thought at the time that he would do anything for his brother.

And then there had been that night. From the instant their mouths touched, there was only fire. First kiss became first time in a matter of minutes. No romantic words or finesse. Only an irrepressible need to be closer. As close as one can possibly be to another person.

It had become a wild new turn in their friendship. He didn't think about Yamato until much later.

It was only after he woke up in the morning and she was gone.

At first he was filled with dread. Where? Why? How? And then the truth stung him in the back of the neck. She had returned to her family. Her husband. Her children. His beloved little niece and nephew. His stomach turned. Everything that had been so wonderful the night before was making him feel ill.

He vowed that it wouldn't happen again. He was more than willing to sweep their indiscretion under the rug. Nobody would get hurt that way. He never wanted to hurt anyone. But he did, and he has been for six months now. He cannot give her up.

She is in his mind now. The place where his passion comes to play with his heartstrings. She is still on his fingertips, and he can smell her on his sheets. He didn't mean for it to happen, but she has become like the words. An obsession.

Hikari. Hikari. Hikari.

She is everything his turbulent mind had been waiting for. His poetry about life has become poetry about love. All the wild untamed emotions he feels, she will take them all. He is starting to enjoying the rich, earthly fragrances of a life outside his mind. The taste of her breath. The sound of her sighs. He doesn't need words to enjoy this physical world. He is a slave to his new fixation. His Hikari. His Light.

* * *

He didn't expect her to appear at his door that morning. She always appeared to him at night, like one of his many conscious dreams wrapped in silky words. Her tangible presence now solidified reality. Ugly reality dancing shamelessly on the tip of her blotchy nose. He couldn't understand how people could live their whole lives caught up in reality. Reality wasn't beautiful. He never gave it much status in his mind.

"You've been crying," He held open the door, and she stepped inside with rigid purpose.

She chose not to reply to that statement. He knew it. She knew it. It didn't matter. She had come to tell him what needed to be said. That was all they ever said to each other anymore. Only what needed to be said. Sometimes he wondered if that was enough.

"Yamato and I are getting a divorce," She stared past him and spoke to the painting on his wall. The one of the angel with hair the color of mahogany wood. An angel that spoke of a past so forgotten that it seemed to be someone else's memory in his head.

"I see," He steepled his hands behind his back and let the words fall short on his lips. What else could he say to that?

He could apologize for ruining her life, but he doesn't feel completely responsible, and he isn't sorry for loving her. The only one who deserved an apology was Yamato, but he wasn't there, and Takeru doubted an apology would fix the damage. Especially if he didn't feel sorry. Guilty, yes. But never sorry.

"Where do we go from here?" She was looking at him strangely. Pleadingly. He was supposed to say something that would make her life livable. Something that would take away all the guilt and the pain. He was always supposed to save her, and he never failed her. Why should now be any different?

But it was. He had nothing to offer her this time.

"Hikari," He placed his hands on her tiny shoulders and looked at her, but he couldn't think of anything but her name. So he said it again. Whispered it. Drew small circles with his thumbs on her pale arms.

Her bottom lip quivered. The first sign that she was starting to fall apart. She'd come to Takeru because he could make every injury better. Him and his words. He always knew what to say. But not now. She was far beyond crying at this point. And if she did cry she didn't know who it would be for. Yamato? Her children? Mostly herself.

"Takeru," He was startled when he felt fingernails on his chest, "I need . . ." The sentence was hollow. What did she need? Too many unnameable things.

"I need something with alcohol."

That would work for now. She'd deal with the rest later.

He sighed. He knew better than to argue with her, "I have that."

That was the way things were to work from then on. Strong liquor. Unspoken words. Fast. Hard. Hazy. He helps her forget the details. Takeru won't believe in reality. She's catching his religion. It's easier than she thought.

The world is prettier through the bottom of a shot glass.

* * *

Sorry that this chapter is so short, but I want the next part to have its own chapter. 


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